Specs
by pen 'n notebook
Summary: His glasses were bent, scratched, and abused beyond their years by the time he arrived at the lodging house, but they were still his most valuable possession. No one would ever know how much they meant to him. Only fair they had given him his name.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Specs and his glasses belong to Disney. I just own this story.

* * *

Specs

His glasses were bent, scratched, and abused beyond their years by the time he arrived at the lodging house, but they were still his most valuable possession. No one would ever know how much they meant to him.

It was only fair they had given him his name.

* * *

In a second floor tenement a little boy stood by an open window listening intently to the busy street below. Eyes closed, he leaned against the window sill as if asleep, but his family knew better. Everyday he stood in front that window, memorized by the activity below. All the different sounds drifted upward and he tried to separate them in him mind. The footsteps ... voices ... machines.

How long had it been since he stepped onto that street? Any street for that matter? Two years maybe? He couldn't remember any more. Day after day of sitting around played tricks on his memory. Time passed slowly inside his family's small two room apartment.

His eyes had a disease. They weren't normal like his brother's and sister's. His eyes ... didn't work right. They were fuzzy. Colors and shapes ran together. Everything in sight turned into blurry squares and circles that appeared all too similar. From a distance his father's chair looked same as the bed. His little brother and sister might as well have been the same person, he couldn't tell the difference unless they spoke. Though he didn't notice the difference having grown used to it, his parents knew something was not right with their son. He squinted at something right in front of his face to see it properly. Over the years the problems with his eyes only grew worse until he could hardly see at all.

It kept him away from the world. Since he couldn't see, leaving the tenement was out of the question. Quickly he became restless, bored, and frustrated like any boy in an enclosed world. He wanted to play stickball, run up and down the street with all the other kids, and explore the city independently. The more he dreamed about it, the more he wanted go out there...

His mother walked across the small room, her shoes tapping lightly against the wooden floor as she prepared supper. Nearby, his brothers and sister played together, but with practice the seven year old drowned them out and concentrated on listening.

From the opposite side of the small room his mother set the last bowl on the table before looking around at her family. She was a young Russian woman with dark thick hair and darker eyes. Motherhood suited her well though it had taken a great toll on her patience. Undoubtedly she loved her children, but raising them tested her limits. Especially her oldest. Four children now, ages seven, five, four, two, and a fifth babe to come within the year - too much for one woman to handle.

She picked up her youngest from the floor and balanced the toddler against her hip. "Come eat," she directed to the other three in her native tongue.

Eager for supper, the two other youngest didn't have to be told twice. They dropped their games and quickly came to the table. Three chairs and three pairs of stacked crates created enough seats for the family of six. The two children, Ivan and Katya, took their normal seat on the makeshift chairs. The real chairs belonged to Mama, Papa, and their older brother.

The older brother who continued to stand at the window...

"Misha, come the table." His mother snapped impatiently.

Hearing his name, his eyes snapped open and he turned away from the widow. The blurry world returned instantly. He navigated the room more from memory than from sight. As he sat, his mother quickly pushed the chair closer to the table. The movement startled the boy, causing him to quickly gripped the table to steady himself. Frowning, his mother took his hand and pressed the neck of a spoon into his palm, not having any patience to watch him struggle with the meal.

"It's stew. Eat." She commanded coolly. On the best of days she was more like a care giver than his mother. After years of Misha's handicap, she felt the right to be tired of dealing with him.

She took her seat between him and her daughter, Katya, with the youngest still in her lap. Her husband wouldn't be home for another hour and a half yet, but it was already six o'clock and her young ones didn't have the stomach to wait longer. Neither did she for that matter, so they ate.

The children's constant chatter halted momentarily and she found peace in the clinking of bowls and spoons. She fed a little broth to her babe, otherwise allowing him to eat the small vegetable pieces she set aside. Like a good mother, she watched over them all, unconsciously focusing on the three youngest. Her eyes avoided Misha though she glanced his direction once. He ate steadily, slowly, not to make a mistake and unintentionally anger her. She couldn't bear watching him, knowing he wasn't normal. Every time she looked at him her heart tore.

After their small supper the household returned to its normal state. Mama lit a candle as the room darkened, and took her usual seat at the table with the fabric she needed to finish stitching for work tomorrow. Nearby Ivan created his own game, using whatever available. Katya and her baby brother played together with her homemade doll.

Once again, Misha was left with nothing to do. If he wanted, he could join his brother's game, but Ivan never played fair. The other two still played games for babies. He was a mature seven year old, too old for babies games. Sighing quietly in frustration, Misha slumped to the floor and thought over his options. He needed something to do.

Without another option, he stood and made his way tentatively to his mother.

September days became noticeably shorter while evenings became dark quickly. Misha more than anyone else hated this. As the light inside the apartment dimmed his mother lit a single candle which provided enough light for the everyone, except him. If he couldn't see during the day, he was completely blind at night. Everything became the same dark color. The candle threw light around, giving the furniture and his family misshapen shadows to confuse him more.

Out of habit, his hands gripped the edge of the table, feeling every scratch and indent. At the same time, he secretly tried to feel for the shirts his mother laid on the table. The larger the pile, the more work she still had to finish. His fingers felt nothing, which meant she was almost finished, or she simply pushed the clothes away from the edge.

"Mama, can you tell a story?" Misha asked. His voice pleaded to her and he looked up longingly.

She glanced in up at him, but unfazed, returned to her stitching without guilt. He never knew if she looked at him anyway. How could he?

From years of experience she knew he was becoming restless again, bored without anything to do. All the pent up energy of a little boy released itself at once. Fidgeting. Tapping irritatingly. Pacing. Mindlessly playing with anything at hand. He could not sit still. Only stories held his attention long enough, and his mother knew why. He only wanted to hear her describe what the people and places looked like so he could imagine them.

Since that was the case, she had better things to do than entertain him. Children amused themselves, he could certainly do the same. "No, not now." She answered without looking at him or breaking a pace in her stitching.

A frown of disappointment crossed Misha's face. He knew not to ask more than once, but he wanted to hear a story. "Please?" He begged hopefully.

Motherly affection disappeared form her voice. "What did I say?" She warned sternly.

Knowing pleading would him nowhere, he let go of the table in defeat to return to his sister and brothers.

They sat on the floor playing separate games in two different worlds. The distinct sound of a clay marble rolling against the wooden floor caught Misha's attention. Knowing who played with marble's the most, he headed over to his brother's misshapen figure.

"Go away." Iavn already knew what his older brother wanted.

Realizing he had been caught, Misha stopped a step in front of him. "Let me play."

"No, they're mine. You can't even play right." Ivan spat as he moved the few clay marble's he had to his side possessively. He didn't have many and wasn't about let his brother loose them.

"You can't either." Misha quipped. "Let me have some."

His younger brother remained defiant.

"No."

Annoyed, Misha bent and reached out to grab the marbles. Though he couldn't see anything small or as dully colored as a marble against the wooden floor, especially in the dark, he had a good idea where they were. Ivan slapped his brother's hand away.

Determined, he reached again, quicker this time.

"No!" Ivan pushed Misha back with a hard shove.

Caught off guard, the older boy fell backward and hit the wood floor with a hard thud.

Up to this point their mother had ignored their petty argument, but at the noise she looked up from her piecework. Misha pulled himself to his feet quickly and angrily. Her eyes widened in horror as she watched him take a purposeful step toward his brother. Despite swinging blindly, his aim was true and he smacked Ivan in the head.

As the five year old started to cry, their mother jumped from her chair and harshly yanked her oldest son backward before smacking the side his head herself. Not expecting to be pulled backward he fell again, but she pulled him to his feet. Misha froze in her grip knowing he was in trouble.

"What has gotten into you?" She demanded in exasperation. Her voice raised, giving away her anger. "You know better! What is wrong with you?"

He just struck his brother. Her boys argued before, but never seriously. Never violently. As it sank in she felt overwhelmingly out of control. Ivan's crying grew louder. The other two were visibly upset. She didn't even know what to do with the boy in her grasp. This was suddenly too much . . . Misha, his blindness, his behavior were too much . . . she didn't know what to think anymore. She looked down at him, but no longer recognized the boy in her grasp. He wasn't her baby.

Lord help her. What had gone wrong?

* * *

**Disclaimer #2:** Fanfic author Stretch1 originally used Misha as Specs real name. I thought the name fit, so I used it as well. I just want to make sure she gets credit for having the idea first.

**AN:** I'm so excited to finally be posting this. Background fics about the boys are always fun to read and write. Besides, Specs needs a little more fan love (and a non slashy story). So here it is. Enjoy and expect another chapter soon.

And as always let me know what you think. Your input makes me a better writer. (Better Writer = Better Stories)

-Repeat


	2. Chapter 2

AN: When I said the next chapter would be soon, I didn't mean half a year later. Whoops.

Shout out to amazing reviewers Pegasus M, smartyjonescrzy, RubyMarlin, and Adren, especially if they've been waiting this long. Hope the next part of the (incredibly depressing) Specs Saga lives up to your expectations.

-pen 'n notebook (Repeat)

* * *

Specs

His glasses were bent, scratched, and abused beyond their years by the time he arrived at the lodging house, but they were still his most valuable possession. No one would ever know how much they meant to him.

It was only fair they had given him his name.

* * *

Three days later Misha woke to his normal routine, dressed, and ate a small breakfast. The light meal was hardly filling, but he knew better than to complain. As usual, his father left for work and his mother gathered her fabric - her work - folding quickly it but neatly. Soon she too would leave for a while, only to return in an hour with new cloth to stitch and another full day's worth of pay.

In the mean time, he, his brothers and his sister occupied themselves. They had no other choice with no neighbor available to watch them. Sometimes Ivan went with Mama to help her, other times just for the company, but more often than not the four finished a chore Mama assigned and went back to sleep.

Misha listened to his mother sweep around the room. Bad as his eyes were, he watched her shadow-like form as she moved about, wiping crumbs and picking up her children's makeshift bedding from the floor.

He listened, and watched for just a moment before standing up and heading over to his place at the window, already anticipating the activity below.

The city never rested. There were a lot of people in the morning, all of them walking, talking, shouting, clanging. The sounds blended together, but Misha made of game of separating them. _Horse. Wagon. Boy. Girl. Man. Woman. Machine..._

Without warning, his mother's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Misha, I want you to come with me today."

She announced it casually, as if having said it dozens of times before.

He stopped instantly in mid-step and spun around to face her. Had he heard right? No, he couldn't have. Going with Mamma on her errands meant going outside, leaving the tenement.

"What?" Misha asked in confusion.

She still acted as if the news were nothing new.

"I want you to come with me to the factory today. You need to be outside more." She added offhandedly. The little boy's face lit up into a giant smile but his mother had already gone back to her cleaning, not taking notice. Everyday he dreamed about going outside, being in the center of activity and exploring all the streets had to offer. Hearing those words was a dream come true.

Ivan watched in disbelief, sitting on his father's armchair across the room. A flash of jealousy shot through his little body. "I want to go too."

"No!" His mother scolded more sharply than she intended.

Ivan flinched backward as if he had been slapped. He sank backward into the chair and nervously looked down to at floor in confusion. Mamma always snapped at Misha, never him. Suddenly the roles reversed and the little boy felt betrayed.

Their mother choose to ignore Ivan for now. He would be in the little apartment when she came back, and by that time he was likely to forget her error and welcome her back happily. Perhaps all the more happily since his brother wasn't returning too.

She was just tense she reasoned. Late sleepless nights and serious conversations between her and her husband over the last few days put her nerves on edge, taking away her patience.

"Hurry, Lace your shoes. We need to leave." She instructed gently to her oldest.

Ivan frowned angrily, not seeing why his brother had the right to go. He couldn't even help Mamma.

Gladly Misha pulled on his shoes, feeling another wave of excitement rush through him. Ivan wasn't allowed to come which meant today it was just him and Mamma. The satisfaction he felt overruled all rational thought. It never occurred to him to ask why after all this time he was allowed outside today.

"I'll be back soon." She reassured her other three children.

When he was ready to go, his mother took his hand. In her other she held her bag of laundry. The hallway was quite darker than their tenement room, much narrower too. His mother guided him through the hall to the stairs. Misha could see every blurred inch of it with his weak eyes, but unfamiliar with area his mother thought it best to take no chances.

Only once he had snuck out into the hall when his parents were away. He found the adventure harmless, despite his parent's warning. It would have been too, if Ivan hadn't tattled on him. He never tried again.

At the stairs his mother gave him the exact number of steps before going down the steep, creaky planks together. The last thing she needed was for him to trip and break his neck.

Silently Misha counted each step, growing more anxious with each countdown.

He knew the door to the street stood at the bottom. Beyond it lay another world, one he had been kept away from. To any other kid it was a filthy, crumbling, crowed street, nothing special by any means. Misha knew it too, but in this mind there was something impressive about the cobblestone walkway.

Once again, his mother took his hand as she led him outside. It was so much brighter than the hallway. Right away he tried to shield his eyes from the light, but his mother kept walking, pulling him beside her. As they walked, her eyes darted down to watch him, making sure he was safe.

His mother lay awake all night. Unable to sleep, she replayed the last several evenings over and over in her mind: every argument with her husband about Misha's behavior, the way she continued to snap at Misha without reason. Three nights ago was the final straw. She couldn't handle her son anymore. She didn't want to handle him anymore.

Once the problem with Misha's eyes became severe, she and her husband knew someday the time would come when he had to leave. Food was expensive. Space for five growing children was limited. Their little struggling family could not afford to care for him any longer.

His parents knew soon enough he would grow into a useless adult, unable to either work or go to school. He would never be able to live his own life or provide for himself and his own family. The only thing he could do properly now is sit beside a window and in five years, they knew he would still be sitting beside that damned window. She would spend the rest of her life caring for him. Not her husband. Not her other other children. Her, his mother.

Over the years he suffered, but she suffered twice as much. Everyday she had to look at him and know he wasn't normal and there was nothing she could do to take that away. The burden sat on her shoulders with an unbearable weight.

She couldn't handle it anymore.

Sitting idly everyday in such a confined space may have damaged his mind by now, just another reason to hand him to an asylum where the blind went. However, she refused to believe he belonged there. The stories she had heard about those places . . . No, she did not want her son there.

In a few years he would be a faint memory, leaving his siblings to wonder if he ever existed. She would convince them he hadn't. He was the neighbor's child, a playmate . . . The lies came to her mind too quickly.

Together they walked around the city, up and and down an endless maze of streets. Misha listened to the city noise around him with rapt attention, absorbing them as if they he had never heard the familiar sounds of horse hooves clicking against the cobblestone pavement or the foreign shout of a man selling his wares. Everything was so much louder. Being at the heart of the street made him feel alive.

On a particular street, after winding through the crowds, Mamma led him onto the sidewalk, maneuvering him against the side of a building, exactly where she wanted him. They both stopped.

"Wait here." She explained. "I need to return my work. Don't move, I won't be long."

Something was wrong, he could hear it in her voice, but couldn't recognize why.

"Alright."

His mother took both his hands in hers desperately. "I mean it." he voice warned sternly. "If you wonder away you'll get lost. You don't know the city. Promise me you will not move."

If he moved an inch from this spot she would never let him leave the apartment again. "I promise." He agreed sincerely.

"Good. Stay here. Wait."

Simple as that. If only it were, she wished.

She quickly ran her fingers through his hair quickly and smoothed his shirt collar, not about to let seven years of maternal care go to waste. One last look showed her he looked so much like his parents, the perfect mix of all her and her husband's features. She took a moment to memorize his face, first his mouth and nose. Even his hair and ears. Finally she looked into his dark sightless eyes for the last time.

Why couldn't he see?

Why couldn't he be healthy and normal like her other children?

Those questions she wondered all too often.

Silently, she pushed her emotions back into her heart, not willing to let them escape now. Her hand brushed slowly over his shoulder and along his arm as she released him. Without looking back she turned away, walking down the street and into the nearest crowd.

Misha shifted from foot to foot and gently rocked back and forth while he waited. He wasn't a patient child, but he was trying his best. The street he stood on was relatively quiet, compared the ones they had come from earlier. From a distance he heard the other streets buzzing with activity, none of it close to him though. His mother was just testing him, he thought. Making sure he obeyed. If he passed, she would take him outside again, and he wouldn't cooped up in the dark apartment. Misha waited, determined to pass the teat.

Time was a concept that escaped the little blind boy years ago. There was a precise way to figure it out, like his parents did, but being unable to see well he had never been able to learn it. So instead he went by more simple measurements. Day and night he understood easily. It was one of the few things his eyes could see clearly. Then, day was broken into three parts: breakfast, lunch, and supper. It wasn't the most reliable time source, especially when his family skipped a meal, but it worked.

He lost track of how long he stood on the sidewalk. The bricks under his feet were not soft and his legs grew tired. Still, he stood. More than once he thought about sitting, but the reminder of his mother's strong reprimand stopped him each time.

Sarah Adams had worked at the West 32nd St. Orphanage for twelve years. In that time she had seen every possible type child enter the building from orphans, immigrants, the ill, the abandoned, the healthy, the innocent, and the hopeless. Every possible combination imaginable came to the orphanage in need of care and she and the others staff accepted them all. So when she opened the front door in the early afternoon, she was not shocked to find a child sitting at the doorstep.

She took one look at the sitting boy and crossed herself, praying he had not been left for the orphanage to find.

As she approached, he jumped almost nervously, and whipped around to face her. Startled, Misha stood up quickly, thinking it had been his mother. Mamma would be angry to find him sitting.

"What are you doing out here?" She asked gently, showing him her presence was nothing to fear.

The woman wore a simple tan skirt and dull white blouse. Instantly he knew it wasn't Mamma; she had been wearing a black skirt. The sun's brighter light barely helped his vision, still he preferred it to the dim apartment.

He didn't understand her words either. They were nonsense, nothing he had ever heard before.

When he did not respond she asked again, carefully watching his reaction. In a caring maternal gesture she stepped closer toward him.

A small panic raced through Misha's body as he saw the figure approach. He didn't know what the stranger wanted, how to react.

"No." He told her quickly, hoping it was enough to make her leave. "No, no, no. Please leave me alone."

Upon hearing the boy's foreign language, Sarah Adams sighed inwardly to herself. The boy had been left there, one more immigrant child for the city to care for.

Her own mind raced briefly trying to think of what language he spoke so she could find another child in the building to translate. In the meantime, he needed to be brought inside. The building already overflowed with homeless children, but she didn't have it in her heart to allow him to become another child of the street.

She motioned for him to follow her, but he didn't see the subtle movement. After a moment of waiting she realized, for whatever reason, he didn't understand, so this time she came to his side and put her hand on his shoulder to gently guide him toward the door. Immediately Misha shrugged out of her grasp and started protesting again.

She tried a second time, more forcefully coaxing him forward despite his pleading protests. Before he knew it she had him inside.

It only took minutes before Sarah Adams and the other staff realized the problem with his eyes. The first clue came when he tripped over the step in building's doorway, after that it took only a matter of moments for them to figure out he couldn't see a thing.

Misha felt the rest of the day pass by at break neck speed. He was bombarded with strangers who didn't speak the same language. A boy introduced as Matthew translated between Russian and English and Misha felt a wave of relief knowing someone spoke the same language in this crazy place. The people asked so many questions, more than he ever heard before: "What is your name? How old are you? Where did you live?" Over and over again.

The answers scared him - not the ones he gave - the ones he couldn't give. Misha had never thought about where he lived before because he had just always been there without the faintest clue of the exact street name, tenement building or room number. He never needed to know them until today.

All of a sudden it felt like the most important, most obvious information in the world and he didn't know it. How could he not know?

A new, more terrifying panic gripped Misha. Now Mamma couldn't find him and he couldn't find her.

As the knowledge sunk in, so did a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach that twisted uneasily. How had he never known something so simple? Everybody knew where they lived, everyone except him. It didn't matter he knew the sun rose facing the window, that the air outside the apartment smelled like smoke from the nearby factories, or that he knew every square inch of the interior by heart.

Until Misha gave the women a name, any name, he couldn't go home.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, and waited patiently. While this story ends here, Specs' tale doesn't. If you want to know how Specs went from the orphanage to the Lodging House (and everywhere in between) message me, ask in a review and I'll send you my headcanon!

-Pen 'n Notebook (Repeat)

* * *

Specs

His glasses were bent, scratched, and abused beyond their years by the time he arrived at the lodging house, but they were still his most valuable possession. No one would ever know how much they meant to him.

Only fair they had given him his name.

* * *

The orphanage, the people, and helter-skelter madness confused Misha from the moment he stepped inside. Everything he had ever known from the quiet, predictable routine of home, to only his family as company turned on its head. Confusing was the only word to describe the feeling.

Over a dozen unfamiliar voices chattered in the background at any given moment. A few he understood. Misha learned quickly to navigate the building's dormitory and dining hall, though he wasn't good enough yet to trust himself to wonder too far from the safety of the furniture he used as a landmark.

Today Misha sat against the wall, eyes closed, listening intently as he tried to sort out the noise around him. Back home, this had been an easy task, and he often made a game of it, but here it was a necessity. A chore. To understand anything at all he had a wade through the extra noise of dozens of young voices talking, laughing, whispering, and walking across the aged wooden floors.

Sorting the sound of anything took concentration and patience. He supposed all the noise wasn't a problem for the other boys, but he wasn't sure why. They must be used to it by now. Maybe using their eyes allowed them to naturally hear better.

At the moment he was trying to find a specific voice among the crowd of children playing in the room. Misha hung onto every sound, knowing Matthew was around somewhere.

Matthew wasn't too hard to listen for. He had a distinct voice, a little boy's high pitched tone with a fairly loud projection. Not as loud as he could speak, but the volume of someone confident in himself.

However, whenever it came to searching for him Misha learned to listen for the conversation instead of the voice since Matthew spoke a mix of Russian and broken English as though he knew the second language but never bothered to speak it regularly. The staff tried without success to switch him over entirely.

The orphanage staff did all they could to Americanize the immigrant children. Misha included. Matthew explained it to him the second day when Misha tripped over his new friend's foreign name. His real name was Matfey, but the day he came (after being picked up by the police on the street for loitering), the staff gave him an American name and told him he had to act like an American now so a family would adopt him.

His second day at the orphanage Misha, now Mark, was told the same thing. He didn't like the sound the name. Too odd, but at least it was short. Simple to remember. Matthew told him they probably would have called him Michael because it was closer, except too many boys had it already. More often than not Misha forgot the name was supposed to be his whenever the staff used it. Luckily, they had enough patience to remind him.

Eventually Misha heard the voice he had been looking for, the one that combined the two languages seamlessly, creating its own in the rubble. Just as carefully he started to make his way over when a large, but gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. "No." It told him clearly.

For as little English as he knew, Misha understood the meaning of that word. A second later the body attached to the hand obstructed his view, stepping completely into his weak eyesight.

The annoyance he should have felt from being interrupted didn't register as she carefully guided him aside, away from the other children.

After narrowing down the possibilities to who she could be, he recognized the woman. Like everyone else here, the voice was familiar even when he didn't understand the words. If he remembered correctly, she found him standing outside and brought him inside this building. She was often lead him and allowed him to clutch a handful of her skirt as he walked the unfamiliar building, but Misha still had yet to discover her name.

For a moment he just stood still, not entirely sure what was happening. He didn't like her silence. In his experience it was never a good thing.

But then, he felt her take his arm and shrug him into a small jacket. Once he figured it out he stood still, letting her maneuver his arms where she wanted. Mamma did the same thing. Not a lot, just when she wanted him to hurry.

Misha must have developed a sixth sense over the years because he realized she was about to move him. He grabbed onto her stiff skirt to prepare himself to follow along side her, but to his surprise, she removed his hand from her skirt and folded it up inside her own.

It was the first time she had ever done that.

Instead of taking him deeper into the building, she took him outside, guiding him slowly across the front step in case he had forgotten it dropped several inches. As the sharp cool air hit his exposed skin and circulated through his lungs the jacket made sense.

Misha should have paid more attention to the difficult task of walking, but instead he was too busy trying to figure out where they were going.

The possibilities flooded his active mind. For a dreadful second he thought she was taking him somewhere else to leave him on another doorstep. He very nearly ground his heels into the cobblestone, refusing to move and make it impossible for her to leave him behind if he couldn't arrive at all.

But then he realized that wouldn't happen. That first day he had been told - promised - through clunky translation the orphanage was his new home. They would take care of him like all the other kids. A few, like Misha, had a disability. There was a boy who couldn't walk and another whose ears weren't so good. Matthew told him about the girl too sick to get out of bed every morning. Certainly if the woman allowed them to stay she'd let him stay too.

He trusted her. Well, he had to, there wasn't another choice as the two kept walking beside the dark brick buildings and packed streets. She took care of him as the walked, leading them safely through the streets where blurred objects and people whirled past at an alarming rate.

Eventually, they paused, and she led him into another building, where the groan of the heavy door announced their arrival as it closed. Right away Misha noticed the place smelled old, the air thick and stale.

Where was he?

The voice of an old man surprised him. Misha took the opportunity to look around, as much as he could while the two adults spoke. What he made out wasn't much. Faded together it looked like any other room, though he was sure it was cluttered with a million odds and ends he'd love to roll through his hands and play with. The only thing he knew looking around, was that size of the room, which was small.

A man's barking laugh brought him back to focus. It sounded deep, but not scary. More warm and rough from old age, Misha decided.

"I hear you've been having trouble with your eyes, son. Is that true?"

A small gasp escaped Misha in surprise. He expected the old man to speak to the woman in English, not to Misha in his own language, because that's what always happened in the orphanage.

Excited to be understood again, he responded easily, "Yes, sir."

"I may be able to help if we can figure out what the problem is. Tell me, what can you see?"

Without hesitating Misha gave his common response. "Nothing. I'm blind."

The old man turned and spoke with the woman in English, before returning his attention to Misha

"Nothing? Darkness is all you see, that's all there is?"

"Well, no." Misha defended, hating that the man sounded disappointed with his eyes, too. "There's light and color."

The man seemed to be pleased by the answer. "Good, that's very good." He emphasized, "Color means you're not blind. Perhaps your eyes can be fixed."

Misha didn't believe him. Mamma always said he was blind, and why would she lie to him?

"Tell me what you see. What does I look like?"

That was an easy question. "I see colors. Black. White. Red. Browns, lots of browns."

"What colors am I wearing today?"

Colors he knew, even if he really couldn't see the specific shape of the older man's body. Misha answered proudly, confident he was right. "A gray shirt and black trousers."

"See, you're not blind." He announced happily. Afterward the man spoke to the woman, relaying the same message, or something similar Misha assumed.

"Come here, we'll fix your eyes soon enough." A gentle old hand on his shoulder guided Misha further into the room. The space was small to begin with, but shrunk considerably as they walked the narrow path between the tables and desks.

On his own Misha wouldn't have dared the journey - he would have walked into a table, broke something valuable - yet with the swiftest of skill the man maneuvered them through to his preferred workspace.

Misha sat in a tall, but comfortable chair at the man's insistence. The seat, back, and arms padded must have worn from age. The small comfort calmed him as he sunk into the chair. Wrapping his head around the fact the man was about to give Misha his sight took effort. He wanted to believe. Really, he did. The promise just sounded too good to be true.

In front of him the older man fiddled around on his table tops. Misha listened anxiously to all the clinking and clicking of objects that brushed by his fingers in search of whatever he needed.

"Everyone's eyes are different." The old man spoke easily carrying the conversation with himself, not that the little boy minded. "Not all of see the same. Most people can go through life perfectly fine with their eyes. Not to say their sight is perfect, just that they'll never notice a slight blur in the background. See, as we age our eyes get worse, that's why an old man like me needs spectacles. Few folks are lucky enough to have their eyes correct themselves over time. Unfortunately, some eyes need more help than others.

Since we determined you are not blind, Mark, we can get you a pair of spectacles that will put the world back in order for you. Do you know anyone who wears them?"

He hadn't the faintest idea. "No." Either a person's eyes worked or they didn't, Misha had always thought.

"That's probably why. This will be an experience then," the man assured. "All we need to do, is find you the right ones. Now, I don't normally make them small, so we'll have to make do for the moment.

The man guided his fingers around the edges of a glass object. "Try this, put it up to your eyes. Very good, tell me what you see."

Misha looked through the lens. The world came into sharp focus. Too sharp, hurting his head. He blinked hard, once, twice, unable to rub the pain from his eyes with the glass in the way. Except, with the new sights he didn't want to miss anything.

Now he finally saw the eye doctor's shop. Filled with dull, faded colors it was just as small as he thought it was with all the furniture in the room. To Misha's amazement all the tables and desks had clear, defined edges and sharp angles. Corners and points - shapes familiar to his fingertips, but not his eyes. They were so sharp that for a brief second he was shocked that he never cut his hands running them along the edges. On the tables were lots of little trinkets and nicknacks he didn't have names for. In fact, Misha knew very few of the names for the objects he saw. Placed in his hands to feel and touch, he may have been able to recognize them.

Now Misha desperately wanted to learn every object again, recognize it by sight. English, Russian, he didn't care as long as there was a name for each image. Learning a language with his eyes instead of his hands, yesterday Misha wouldn't have thought it possible.

His mouth dropped open. There were no words to describe the moment. All the washed out brown and gray colors looked glorious. He finally saw them, really saw them, not just shadows and blurs. This room was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Even if all the eye doctor's clunky furniture was the only thing he had ever seen. Misha tilted his head and craned his neck to look around.

"And?" The old man prompted, a hint at a smile tugging at his voice. His face looked extraordinarily aged, weathered with creases and wrinkles. Misha observed him with fascination. People looked like that?

"I see! I see!" Misha exclaimed.

Without growing an inch, Misha's world became much bigger in that tiny room. The lenses would give him the chance to see outside on the streets, back at the orphanage, too. At last the other boys couldn't ignore him while they played.

Mamma will be so proud, he thought. He imagined her happiness once she found out his eyes had been cured.

"Good, good." The old man murmured happily. "I'll have them made and delivered in two days time." He first told the woman, and then Misha. "Perhaps I'll make them a tad larger to grow into. When they need to be repaired or replaced, just come back."

Much to Misha's disappointment, he had to give back the glass lens, though the old man reassured he would have his own to keep soon enough. His head swam from all the excitement, the anticipation of being able to see. Permanently. So much so that Misha didn't notice the woman lead him back to the orphanage until his coat was removed and the other children swarmed him with questions. (Where did she take him? Did he meet a family? Were they nice? Did they want to keep him?)

The next two days waiting nearly killed the little boy. With the excitement worn off, he acted restless, wondering around every room the orphanage attendants shuffled him into. What patience he once had to stand by the window all day vanished overnight. The staff were shocked by the sudden change of behavior.

Sarah Adams, the woman who first brought him in from the doorstep, recognized the problem, and took him to the Russian eye doctor, witnessed Misha break down into a tantrum in the dormitory that first full day of waiting.

On the hardwood floor he sat on his knees, hunched down crying into the floorboards. A few seconds later he slapped his hand against them in anger. The sound of little Russian boy's frustration tore her heart.

Dangling his a largest desire in front of him and taking it away caused gentle, quiet Misha to act so violently ill behaved. She watched him have the opportunity to see for the first time in his life, and two minutes later took it away. Now his whole heart and soul wanted nothing more than to have a pair of spectacles to see again.

He couldn't communicate his desire, didn't have the words in English, or the people to listen to him in his own tongue.

She did the only thing she could: sit on the floor and pull him into her arms. At first he resisted, but he wanted the comfort so much that he gave up and accepted her embrace.

Two days later, as promised, the glasses arrived with care in a package at hands of a teenage messenger boy. Joy returned to Misha's face when they were placed in his hand, and he nearly poked his eyes out with the speed he shoved the wire frames on his face.

Finally, he saw.

Later that night, Sarah Adams walked into the dormitory where the children lay drifting off to sleep. Several rolled over, but most remained peacefully unaware. As she walked down the rows checking on the children, a smile crossed her face at the sight of Misha sprawled across his bed, asleep, with his spectacles still on.


End file.
